And the adventure continues...
Friday, 4 April 2008
In a basic (and probably lame) attempt to sort my life out, I'm attempting to condense a lot of it, and one of the areas where this has to happen is in my various blogs.
Hence, my adventures in night security, as well as everything else in my life, can now be found at this URL:
Hope to see you there, kids. It's been a blast.
posted by Sheamus @ 11:00 am
Let's face it...
Wednesday, 30 January 2008
... my job ain't so dirty anymore.
posted by Sheamus @ 9:30 am
Churn.
Wednesday, 2 January 2008
This story was passed on to me by one of the male keyworkers at my place.He'd been working last night and was doing one of the general rounds of the building, I believe at around 6pm. He went to the top level and was outside the room of the youngest chap in the project, who's a total pisshead, when he overhead a conversation taking place between him and the near-fifty year old skank who is riddled with Hep C and all manner of STDs that I wrote about before. The door was closed and he couldn't see anything, but this is how it went down:
Hep C Skank: "So, are you going to give me that tenner, or what?"
Young Alcoholic: "No." (laughs)
Hep C Skank: "Then get the fuck off of me then!"
Prostitution, the world's oldest profession - after the humble midwife - is alive and well in the very building where I'm currently devouring season three of Prison Break. That's all well and good, but slipping the wick into that hag? I don't care how much of a drunk you are. That shit is fucking wrong.
Grim.
posted by Sheamus @ 8:30 pm
Physician, heal thyself. Then fuck off.
Monday, 17 December 2007
Last Friday I paid a visitor to my local surgery. I wasn't ill - I simply had to pick up a prescription for my son. This was about 5pm.
I walked in, and immediately got a strange vibe. Except for the staff, there were only three people in the room - a man and his missus, who were seated, and one other chap. This latter fella was leaning over the reception desk in a most aggressive manner. On a side note, he later turned out to be Iraqi. That wouldn't be worth mentioning generally, but it's relevant within the confines of this tale.
As I said, the chap's manner put me on guard immediately - I'm a professional, don't you know - and as I went over to the desk and picked up the prescription, my instincts were proven correct.
"I want to see my fucking doctor," he said, "Not that woman. She can do nothing for me. What can she do? What does she know?"
The chap had come in and asked to see his usual doctor. She was away, and the reception staff (there were three of them) had told him that. Instead, they're referred him to a locum. She also turned out to be a woman. Now, I don't know why he was happy with his normal female doctor and unhappy with this one, but he clearly, at this point in time, didn't think a woman could do much for him.
"What can she possibly know?" he repeated, "I'm dying here. I want to see my fucking doctor."
Each of the ladies in reception took turns to attempt to calm and appease him, but each time one of them spoke to him he said something like this:
"Was I fucking talking to you? No, I was talking to her."
And then he'd turn his attention to the woman he'd same the same thing to just a few moments before.
It was most strange.
Then: "I am dying here. What, you want me to die in the street? I need to see my fucking doctor. Fuck this country!"
"Well," said one of the women, the eldest, "If you don't like it here, you know what you can do..."
Is that racism? It is on paper, but the guy, to his credit, totally set it up.
"What? What did you say?" he said, suddenly aghast at the injustice of it all, "I would go back to my fucking country if you would fucking get out of it!" He was making a brilliant observation about the current unpleasantness in Basra et al, but I'm not entirely sure the 68-year old behind the desk was all that heavily involved.
At this point he caught my eye. "What are you fucking look at?" he said.
"You," I replied.
"It has fucking nothing to do with you."
"It does," I said, "You're just a little out of control, don't you think?"
He became more and more agitated, and when his behaviour descended into almost endless swearing and - one at a time, girls - spitting on the carpet in what can only be described as a 'dismissive' manner, one of the ladies informed him that unless he sat down, they would have to call the police.
"Call the fucking police! Why would I care? I will tell them you are all racists."
I could see where this was going - downhill, fast. I had my son with me, and my first instinct was to get him to a safe place. The guy was clearly a psycho, and psychos are capable of anything. I ushered my boy to the other side of the surgery. Secondly, I had to warm up my hands - as you know, it's been fucking freezing of late, and the last thing you want to do is punch somebody in the face with ice-cold hands. Hello, several broken fingers/knuckles. So, while he continued to rant, I casually walked over to the closest radiator. It was sweeter than heaven itself.
When I had had my fill, my eyes wandered over to the other people in the room - the couple. How were they reacting? My ears zoomed in on their discourse: "Don't get involved, " said the woman, "You're not at work now." I'd had those same words said to me many, many times.
Suddenly, a doctor appeared. It was Dr S, the senior bloke in the surgery. "What's going on here?" he asked the receptionists.
"Who are you?" said Mr Happy, "What does this have to do with you?"
"I'm a doctor," he said, and walked over, "Look, come with me, and we'll sort this out."
And then he made a fatal mistake - he very, very, very lightly tapped Mr Happy on the arm.
"DON'T FUCKING PUSH ME!" he said, loudly, angrily, stuffed full of venom and bile, "WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, YOU FUCKING OLD MAN? YOU SEVENTY-FIVE YEAR OLD? FUCK YOU! DON'T FUCKING PUSH ME!"
Dr S looked shocked. He turned to the receptionists. "Right," he said, "Call the police. And delete his details from the system."
"FUCK YOU OLD MAN!" said Mr H, "You fucking seventy-five year old!"
Dr S went back into his office. Mr H continued to swear and spit, spit and swear, and it was only a matter of time. A minute or two passed. The police never showed up, and Dr S came back into the surgery.
"Are the police not here yet?" he asked reception.
"YOU FUCKING SEVENTY-FIVE YEAR OLD!" said laughing boy, "FUCK YOU! DON'T FUCKING PUSH ME. WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?"
"Oh, " said Dr S, "....................... fuck off."
"WHAT!? WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME?"
Mr H was livid. He stormed over to Dr S and got into a stance that was 100 per cent indicative of a person about to take a swing. I looked over at the man and his missus.
"Ready?" he said.
I nodded.
We walked quickly over to Mr H and each grabbed an arm. He went limp immediately. "What are you doing?" he said, nervous. We then picked him up and carted him outside. Clearly he thought we were going to beat the crap out of him, and who knows, we may well have done. But at the very second we burst out into the cold air a police van pulled up. We handed him over, and I went back inside to get my son. The chap with his missus turned out to be a security guard at Priory Meadow.
As we went to leave again, one of the police guys pulled me over. They needed me as a witness. Fine. But Mr H, who was surrounded by four other cops, thought he'd have another go. "You're a dead man," he said, "I'll remember you. We're not done, you and me."
"Yeah, okay, tough guy," I said, and did that annoying quotations thing with my fingers.
He went mental.
I had to go inside to give my side of the story and when we got back out again Mr H was handcuffed in the back of a police car. Six cops were present. Apparently, when I was inside he'd started on the police, too.
Amusingly, I've seen Mr H twice since this incident - once on my way to the gym, and once back. Both times he's looked at me directly and I know there's recognition there. He remembers.
And he's going to get me, you know.
Soon.
posted by Sheamus @ 10:30 pm
Rambo (2008)
Thursday, 29 November 2007
I've written about the new Rambo film on here before, but since then the movie has gone through several name changes and a couple of new teaser trailers have been released, and neither are encouraging.
Here's the original trailer, in high-res AVI format (25mb).
Let's not beat around the bush here - that's a great fucking trailer. I mean, it's an odd thing to say, but that level of mindless gore is almost unprecedented in the modern climate. It's almost refreshing.
And here's the second trailer.
I find it quite interested that Stallone, who's basically running this entire project, has made some significant changes to the feel of this second trailer. The music is very much Black Hawk Downish with a cheesy monologue, and it's nowhere near as brutal as the first one. What's also true is that if I'd only seen the second trailer, I'd pretty much think this was going to suck.
And here's the third trailer. Which is fucking awful. It looks like something MTV put together.
The film is now going to be called Rambo. I liked John Rambo, as it implied a bit more of an intellectual (for want of a much better word) take on the character, and tied in nicely with Rocky Balboa, but thank the good Lord they've dropped Rambo IV: To Hell and Back, which is just about the worst name for a sequel ever.
Here's a link to the official site, and here's a featurette about the film.
Stallone claims the picture is about "humanity", and it's safe to say it appears to be offering a familiar but vaguely interesting take on whether conflict can ever be resolved by goodwill or the establishment of a discourse, as opposed to more violence. The jury's always going to be out on that one, although given that it's a Rambo feature you can be pretty sure the closing message is going to be soundly right wing.
Burnett: Please. It will help change people's lives.
John J. Rambo: You bringing any weapons?
Burnett: Of course not.
John J. Rambo: Then you ain't changin' nothin'.
Quite.
In case you're not sporting a semi quite yet, here are some promotional pics:
The risk here is that Stallone couldn't decide whether to really go back to a First Blood-style introspective look at the character or to make a super-violent 80s-style post-pub flick, and ends up with something messy in-between. I think if I had to make a choice I'd go for a film that was closer to the latter, as per the original trailer, although the various bits and pieces that I've seen and the comments made by Stallone himself suggests to me that he was possibly trying to make this one a tad more worthy. Let's not kid ourselves - both the previous Rambo sequels are pretty poor. I don't want any more of that, and I'm pretty sure Stallone doesn't either. We'll have to wait and see exactly what he ends up with. I just hope it's not as lost as those new trailers seem to imply.
Released on January 25, 2008 in the States and February 22 in the UK.
posted by Sheamus @ 10:00 am
Brighton.
Saturday, 24 November 2007
I went to Brighton last weekend for my birthday. Yeah, it was nice. You weren't invited.
For my sins, I like to have a drink or two in Wetherspoons. Now, I know many of the branches of this fine establishment, particularly on the outskirts of London, are complete and utter dives. However, the Hastings John Logie Baird is really quite a decent place. It's a great venue to start your evening - the drinks are cheap (and consistently good), the conversation can free-flow and you really don't get any trouble there. That's as much as a testament to the door staff in Hastings as it is anything else - they've improved dramatically in the last ten years or so. If you've lived in Hastings long enough (I've been here nearly 30 years, on and off) you'll have noted how much safer it feels in the town centre on a night out. You see so few fights, certainly compared to how it used to be. Part of that is due to a greater police presence, but I like to think your friendly neighbourhood doorman, and a slight uptick in the quality of venues and patrons in Hastings, has contributed.
So, I'm in Brighton. There are ten of us altogether. We've had a nice meal and are looking for places to drink, and decide on the local Wetherspoon. In case you don't know, it's called 'The Bright Helm', which really has to be a bit of an in-joke, doesn't it? It's accurate, too, as outside were a right couple of knobs.
When I got there a couple of my mates were standing outside talking to the two doormen, and I thought, "Here we go... too many blokes so we won't be allowed in." But it wasn't that. We were almost an even split of men to women anyway, our little group, and what the problem actually turned out to be was one of ID.
We didn't have any. Hence, they weren't going to let us in.
Now, this wouldn't be all that unusual a story except that last weekend I was celebrating my 36th birthday. Thirty-six. That's double-eighteen.
I can understand door staff being told to be careful about letting in people who look under 21, but for fuck's sake - if I look a day under bloody 35 it's a bloody good day, let me tell you.
Now, this would have been bad enough, but it was the attitude of these cocksuckers that really pissed me off. They wouldn't let me in, and wouldn't give me any decent reason why not. I told them my age, they could clearly see I was telling the truth, but it wasn't good enough.
I never carry ID when I go out. I mean, I've never needed to, but I don't bring my wallet with me because I feel it's too much of a risk. You life is in there, really, after all, isn't it? So it's just a bank card, cash, keys and my phone. But that's because I look my age. I'm 36, you know.
"Yeah, can I see the manager please?" I said. At this stage I'd had a few drinks but was sober enough to be both coherent and maintain the correct level of attitude, i.e., I had none.
"Yeah, wait over there and he'll come out when he's ready."
"How is he going to know to come out if one of you doesn't go and tell him that somebody wants to see him?"
They looked at me blankly.
"So...", I said, "Can I see the manager please?"
"Wait over there..."
And this went on for a bit. Ultimately, of course, I adopted a bit more attitude than was probably desirable and one of my friends pulled me off with the usual "it's not worth it... they're wankers..." etc. For a second I wondered if this was one of those times where it very much WAS worth it but, of course, with the magic of hindsight my friend was right.
However, it's dicks like those two that give all doormen a bad name. There was no need to be such pricks. We weren't rude. We weren't wankered or out of control, and we certainly weren't out to cause trouble. But because we had an average age of somewhere in the early 30s we were too damn youthful to pay two quid for a pint.
Suffice to say I did something I never, ever do, and wrote a letter of complaint to JD Wetherspoon HQ. I haven't heard anything yet, and don't really expect to, but I won't be moistening my lips at The Bright Helm anytime soon, let me tell you.
posted by Sheamus @ 4:00 pm
Work.
Monday, 19 November 2007
Christ, I've been crap lately on here.
What's going on? Well, we have a full house at work, but they're all behaving themselves, and hence the lack of updates. It's come to something when you don't know whether you want it to kick off or not just so you'll have something to say.
I've been hitting the gym very hard, adding a lot more cardio to my routine and doing 90 minute workouts 5-6 times a week. I've lost half a stone in two weeks, but that's the same half a stone I put on vigorously watching DVDs whilst sitting on my arse 38.5 hours a week.
I've cracked the sleeping thing; the secret is to just have a mug of coffee every two hours - 10am, midnight, 2am, etc, up until about 6am, and then you've had more than enough. No Red Bull or Pro Plus - just coffee. It works. You only have to worry about little two-hour windows of pain.
And that's about it.
posted by Sheamus @ 1:30 pm